


something foolish

by irabelas



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Height Differences, Just Dwarven Things, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 06:56:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3347756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irabelas/pseuds/irabelas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew that something would always rule him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	something foolish

”And you’re not looking, are you?”  
  
”No, I can’t say that I am...” Cullen trailed off, eyes turned back to the young recruits training. The sound of snow crumbling under harsh footsteps was the tell-tale sign that she’d gone - and Cullen let out a deep breath. It was not every day that the Herald of Andraste made a pass at him - and he had even blushed like the Chantry boy he is, tongue tied and fumbling with his hands in that moment, her being all smiles and teasing quips afterwards.  
  
In Skyhold, he stared down at her, eyes softening just as his words does. She was shaken, he saw, but still her eyes turn bright and blistering at him, the edges of her mouth curling upwards. It was the first time he saw her smile after Haven, and in her eyes he recognised something in her. He’d seen it in himself plenty of times; after scouts returned from the frontier; after men he had sent out came back unscathed, their numbers by the grace of the Maker not reduced.  
  
She had looked up at him with the same sort of reverence and without a moment of hesitation Cullen settled his hand on her shoulder as she pulled away.  
  
”I will not let the events of Haven to happen again. You have my word.”  
  
”Thank you, Cullen.” Her hand squeezed his, eyes big and round and peering. For half a moment that passed between them too quickly, he thought she might tug him down by the fur collar with a ferocity he’d only seen her wield her daggers with - yet, she let him go, walking up the steps to the main Keep.  
  
Maybe he’d been looking, after all.

* * *

  
He lends her a book. Or well, he practically shoved it her way. It’s old and worn and something he found in the dusty old cobweb filled library in the lower levels of the Keep.  
  
”Here.”  
  
At first, she stared at it, fingers stroking away the dust that has piled on top of it in layers for Maker knows how long. He should’ve brushed it off before giving it to her and Cullen curses under his breath, a hand rubbing at his neck in worrisome habit at the mere thought.  
  
”What is it?” Her eyebrows raise slowly.  
  
”A book.” He said, and he almost hits himself for it, ”I-it’s concerning dwarfs. Or well, Orzammar. Kal-Sharok. The dwarven empire. I found it in the library and thought...” Cullen trailed off, watching as Alma’s face - scarred, freckled and tanned - drop at her words. Cullen cleared his throat. ”What is it?”  
  
”Cullen-” She started, opening up a page, stroking it almost tenderly, a crease forming between her brows that he could only describe as forlorn settling in, ”I can’t read.”  
  
Oh.  
  
The words hung in the air.  
  
 _Stupid stupid stupid_ -  
  
Cullen curses under his breath. The signs of her illiteracy had been there all along.  
  
Always had she been at the wartable with Josephine before he’d even woken up, why there had been no quill or even an inkpot by her desk in her chambers, only a wax sigil instead-  
  
”No matter,” Cullen said, stepping forward, taking the book from her hands, ”It was foolish of me to presume-”  
  
”That I can read?” Alma cocked a brow at him, the drawl in her voice not unintentional at all, he imagined.  
  
”No- That I-” He stammered, and a flush travelled up his collar until he breaks eyecontact with her, a hand on his neck, ”Yes. I’m sorry.”  
  
Simply, she sighed, shaking her head. A wave of reassurance filled him - they were friends, colleagues, and Maker knows there had been more awkward discussions between them. Yet, this felt different, as if baring a part of her that no one know of. Or well - Cullen thought so. Josephine knew and Leliana most definitely knew and someone had to read all those missives while she’d been out in the field...  
  
Suddenly, Cullen was sure he had been the only one left in the dark.  
  
”Why didn’t you say?” He asked, blinking.  
  
Her chuckled rang through his office. ”An illiterate dwarven Inquisitor? As if there’s not enough dirt to throw at me.”  
  
”Fair enough.” He replied, noticing the humour in her voice. And still, the need to say more than too little overwhelmed him, the book still in hand, knuckles turning white beneath the leather gloves he wore, ”For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”  
  
”It’s nothing, truly. It’s just that...” The book in his hand is ripped from him, leaving him clutching at the air for a moment. ”I want to learn. Teach me. Please.”  
  
”Is that an order?” Cullen laughed, and this time it’s teasing.  
  
”Most certainly, Commander.” She nodded affirmingly, holding the book to her chest like it’s something precious.  
  
It never occurred to Cullen that it might’ve actually been just that.  
  
”By all means then.”

* * *

  
Cullen had, though he wasn’t fond of admitting it, always been a bit of a liar.  
  
It hadn’t been intentional. Yet, before he found the solitude of the lake, there had always been one other place he’d gone. His siblings had always been loud - and to avoid them, he’d sneak away from the large farm his family owned with a lamb strewn over his shoulders, telling Mia and Mother and Michael that he’d herd them down the hill to the bank of the lake.  
  
Instead, of course, he snuck off to watch the Templar’s sparring or training, eyes wide with admiration.  
  
However, such pleasures were always fleeting; his Mother - and Mia, mind you - always found out in the end and he’d be given more chores for weeks.  
  
Still, it didn’t stop him from returning, watching the sparring templars with reverence he only reserved for his Father and certain Chantry symbols.  
  
She too, is a bit a of a liar. At first, she’s stumbling phrases and short sentences during their sessions.  
  
Soon, it’s obvious that the book he’d given her is too complex, the sentences too long for even him at times. Instead, they started off with the only way Cullen knows how - with the Chant.  
  
Without a single audible complaint, Alma recited them for him, voice low and singing after only two sessions together.  
  
It is only after he hears her voice ringing through a corridor after a meeting at the wartable that Cullen figured that she hadn’t been reading, but rather memorising the words.  
  
Cullen is by far not the best teacher, but knows enough of discipline to know when to give it - and so, he tells her that he knows exactly what she’s been up to. Alma flushed, apologising.  
  
They start again. This time, with letters.  
  
He gave her homework and the glares she sends his way is so livid it actually made him laugh.  
  
Yet, every evening, the Inquisitor Cadash hands it in. Begrudgingly at time. Sometimes apologetic. Sometimes ecstatic, a smile lingering on her lips and he doesn’t understand until he sees the crude drawing on the backside that makes his Chantry ears turn red.  
  
And every evening Cullen spends an hour before fretful sleep correcting it, handing it back to her with praise or scorn and even more homework at which she groans at. As per usual.  
  
In fact, Cullen’s been grateful. She hasn’t minded his handwriting - not even commented on it. She does not notice the way his hands are always shaking during their sessions, too endorsed in the texts and learning and listening to see the blobs of ink staining her papers from the tremors in his hands.  
  
He beings to measure their progress in books - Hard in Hightown seems to be a favourite, and she blows through the volumes despite the writing not being the best - and even managed to pull through The Tale of the Champion.  
  
It took three books for her to open up.  
  
The King’s tongue, she told him, is hard to read because of the very way it is constructed. It’s long and flowing, the grammar hard and inconvenient - unpractical, she had said, clicking her tongue. Afterwards, she had shown him the runes she knew - the little literary language she knew.  
  
They were scribed into the hard stones of Carta spots; to Cullen, of course, they looked nothing more than peculiar squares and triangles to which she explained that that was very much the point of them. No one should - or could - be able to read them except for Carta members.  
  
In a way, it becomes his own homework for him to remember what the triangle with three diagonal lines means or the subtle difference between dog and wolf. And yet again, Cullen is grateful. For it kept his mind off other matters.  
  
Even while out on the field, Alma practised. Always, upon return, it is him whom she first returned to, handing in the small pieces of papers that she’d been able to scribble on in-between closing rifts and it almost made him groan at the load of extra work he’s on the receiving end off. He almost starts to think she’s doing it on purpose.  
  
Two weeks of no notice passed and Cullen started to think that he might’ve sent her to her death - or that she’s being unresponsive on purpose. He sent her to Empire du Lion and almost hated himself for it, watching the reports of more dead scouts come in from Leliana’s rookery every day, hands clutched in the yellow parchment until the shaking stops and Maker know he’s worried but not _why_ because she’s always been resourceful, smart, capable and-  
  
His friend, Cullen thinks, with reverence.  
  
He’d always been a bit of a liar.

* * *

  
Cullen almost forgot what she is at times. It is hard for him to remember what she is when she’s smiling up at him through her lashes, one jape after another, when her hand touches his and his mouth goes dry.  
  
First and foremost, he told himself, she’s the Inquisitor. A beacon of hope for the people, for Thedas - for him. Untouchable.  
  
It is why, once the truth about the lyrium started to slip up and the shaking could not be hidden anymore and he decided to tell her - about the nightmares and the withdrawal and the headaches - Cullen stopped himself.  
  
The words that almost slipped out of his mouth were one’s he had been sure were just fragments of something else. His shoulders slumped, a heavy sigh leaving him.  
  
”I want no part of that life anymore.” Cullen said, closing the wooden box, the lock giving a soft _clink_ and he hoped that it was the last time he’d ever hear it shut again.  
  
A tell-tale sign settled between her brows - a deep wrinkle that only is visible when she disapproves, when she’s concentrating too hard. ”Cullen-”  
  
”Inquisitor, I must. I will not endure that life any longer.” Cullen said, voice still low and reasonable, ”The lyrium... it makes it hard, at times, but I’ve told Cassandra to watch me. Should I, in any way, endanger the Inquisition I will retire from my duties.”  
  
”But it’s dangerous. This could very well mean your life.” Alma said, tone desperate, as if holding onto something that’s long gone would make it come back through simple wishing, ”I’ve seen what it can do Cullen.” She squirmed where she stood, ”After Redcliffe I offered my contacts as a way for lyrium supplies. I used to smuggle it, Cullen. I’ve seen dwarves, who’re resistant to it, go mad from withdrawal. Men and women living their lives in the mines only to retire and die from the consequences.”  
  
”It is not a fate I’d wish upon an enemy, much less you.” The hopelessness in her voice told him what her next words would be should he not speak.  
  
 _Yes_ , he wanted to ask, _but what am I_? Yet a headache was creeping into him, the whispers of lyrium singing in him, willing him to listen to the voice of reason Alma was trying so hard to be.  
  
”You... you want me to keep taking it?” His voice had been no more than a whisper.  
  
”I will not force you to do anything,” Alma replied, straightening her back, ”But-”  
  
He knew that something would always rule him - but it would not be the Chantry, it would not be lyrium, and it would not be her.  
  
”Inquisitor, let me see this through.” His voice rose above their quiet murmuring, and whatever recruit that passed by his office would’ve jumped at his tone, ”This is not about the Inquisition or the Chantry or even us-” Cullen motioned between them, ”Foremost is for me. I will not let you step between that.”  
  
Alma stepped back as if he’d struck her across the face. ”I don’t want to lose you.” She whispered. ”I have more to lose now than ever. The lyrium... you’ll go mad, Cullen.”  
  
”You certainly don’t hold me to a high esteem.” He scoffed and only regretted it when his gaze turned back to her.  
  
A low sob left her, fat tears rolling down tanned cheeks, staining her shirt. ”Promise me. Promise me you won’t die, Cullen.”  
  
His fists clenched involuntarily. ”I promise.”  
  
”I’ll allow it,” She said, her face cast in shadow, ”By your leave.”  
  
He could not keep his vows to the Chantry, but by the Maker, he’d keep this one.

* * *

  
Some might call dwarves sturdy, clumsy and practical, yet Cullen had never seen someone move as quickly as she did. At the end of every meeting she’d slink out the door like a cat chasing a mouse, his call after her unheard and most certainly ignored.  
  
Although she was fast, she wasn’t tactful at all. Neither was Cullen, he was aware of that much over the years, but he almost pitied the girl. Her avoidance was almost too obvious, and the meetings at the wartable soon grew uncomfortable, the air laced with tension that made even Josephine stammer.  
  
It was through mere chance that lion finally caught the mouse.  
  
He was about to fetch Dorian - the man knew Alma well enough, enough for rumours to transpire, and maybe he’d know how to speak with her about... we’ll he wasn’t sure.  
  
About anything, really.  
  
There hadn’t been any of that either, since that conversation in his office a week ago. A few curt nods, short words with a large table between them and nothing else. Cullen hoped Dorian would discuss the matter over a game of chess but alas; here she was.  
  
”Inquisitor.”  
  
”Commander.” Her hand touched the railing, and he saw the knuckles whiten visibly.  
  
”Do you have a moment? I needed to speak to you.”  
  
”We’re speaking right now.”  
  
”Right.” A flush was threatening to spread up his neck, tongue tied and fumbling as he was. Damnit, usually he’d have days or even hours to rehearse these things, now-  
  
Now he just had to make the best of it.  
  
”What I said was unworthy of me- I should’ve been more careful-”  
  
”You did me the decency of not presuming. Not everyone would be so kind, Commander.” Alma said, arms crossing over her front as she leaned against the wall, eyeing him from tip to toe. If it was with approval or disapproval he couldn’t tell and honestly, it did not feel like the right moment to internally debate such matters. That was for later - if he made it out alive from this.  
  
”Still, I shouldn’t have let the withdrawal get the best of me. You were only showing concern.”  
  
They stood there for half a heartbeat, squirming in their places, averting their gazes from each other like shy pre-teens caught staring.  
  
It was she who broke the final layer of ice with a light cough, whatever diplomatic charisma she’d learnt while in the Carta shining through all layers of holiness one might bestow upon her, albeit short but pleasing, form.  
  
”Commander. Cullen. I enjoy our time together. Even before I knew what you were going through I-” Alma said, her arms unraveling from the physical cocoon she’d built herself, taking a step towards him, ”I support whatever choices you make because they’re yours to make.”  
  
”I can’t say I haven’t been missing our time together,” The blush that crept up her cheeks was as endearing as it was flattering, ”Thank you, Alma. I was-”  
  
Now, Cullen was not a man of planning, of scheming, and at times, not he most strategic man despite his position as Commander. He did, however, notice how plump her lips were, the thickness of her eyelashes fluttering at him, the scent of soap and rain and something entirely else hidden beneath all that and the rosy tint of her cheeks. He also noticed the ample, perfection of the situation; here, standing on steps lower than her, she easily reached his neck.  
  
”You were?” The lips he had so idly been studying moved, breaking whatever trance the Maker had put him in. Heat touched his face, a sudden dryness in his throat.  
  
”Doing something foolish.” Cullen said, reaching up at cupping her face, kissing her deeply. Against him, she gasped, lips soft and plump, quivering, he noticed and then moving against his own.  
  
She tasted sweeter than he thought. Her hands were in his hair, rearranging the mess he’d so carefully constructed that morning, yet it was no matter. Her lips were on his, hot, willing and soft, a moan leaving her when he bit her lip, and Maker, was she lovely.  
  
It was only the thought of someone walking in on them that pulled them apart, flushing and breathing heavy, brushing against each other in languid strokes of air.  
  
”Foolish? That was better than any idea you’ve ever proposed at the wartable.” Alma said, forehead leaning against his, their noses almost touching.  
  
He scoffed in reply, professional ego slightly wounded.  
  
”I could use another briefing.” She quipped quickly.  
  
This time, Cullen’s chuckle was deep and warm.  
  
It was his pleasure to.

**Author's Note:**

> i got to thinking about the dynamics of dwarf!quizzy/cullen recently, and naturally, i could not stop myself from writing a bit about it.


End file.
